If the Fates Allow
by The Plaid Slytherin
Summary: 3 vignettes. Two wartime Christmases and one post-war. [Written for hoggywartyxmas on LJ.]


_1980_

It was getting late, and the ticking of the clock seemed interminably loud. Molly sighed and tucked her wand back into her apron pocket. The kitchen was scrubbed, there wasn't a dirty dish in the house, and all the presents lay neatly beneath the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree in the living room. It wasn't much, of course, but they managed, as they always did.

She took up the rag again and ran it over the already pristine kitchen table. She could have used a good _Scourgify_ , of course, and she already had, but sometimes, one just needed to keep busy the Muggle way. Perhaps Arthur was onto something.

Molly pushed a flyaway strand of hair out of her eyes and looked again at the clock. She had it leaning up against the dish board; Arthur's hand still pointed to work. He was needed there, of course, with all the raids.

Her grip on the rag tightened. All the children had gone down so easily; she almost wished someone would wake up and take her mind off things. She listened for some sign of Ron waking, or Fred and George trying to sneak downstairs to get in the presents.

It would be better tomorrow, she reasoned. Tomorrow afternoon, when Arthur had woken up, and the rest of the family had come…

She just hoped Gideon and Fabian would be able to make it. The children loved them so, and she knew they loved to see their nephews.

"We're making it so they don't have to grow up in a world where a madman like that can go free," Gideon had told her the last time they'd visited, when she'd begged them to give it up. "How could we tell them we stopped, when he killed all those other people? People you know, Molly. People you went to school with."

"You've your family to think about," Fabian had said, deftly nudging away George who was trying to pick the wand out of his robe pocket when he wasn't looking. "So we'll do the fighting."

"But soon enough it will be you! What will I tell them when you've got yourself blown to bits?"

Fabian grinned. "You tell them Prewetts die fighting."

It didn't bear dwelling on, not at Christmas, but Molly knew it could come at any time. She dreaded the late-night visitor , perhaps Dumbledore himself. She knew it had to be done, that someone had to face this man, but why her family? Why her brothers, her last connection to her parents? Her vision clouded with tears.

"No," she told herself firmly. "Not tonight." She left the kitchen, bustling into the living room to make sure everything was still perfect. Gideon and Fabian would insist she'd made too much, but they'd eat everything put before them and then some… the twins would love their new toy broomsticks, though no doubt they would figure out how to cause maximum destruction with them.

But it would always be there, she knew, lingering at the back of her mind. Because if it didn't come tonight, it would come some other time. There were too many of them, too many people who were afraid to stand up to him. Would she be out there, too, if she didn't have the children to think of? And there would be another, too, next year, she already knew. Perhaps by then, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would be gone, and she would be free simply to enjoy her family in peace.

Next Christmas would be better.

 _1995_

Muggle television was truly a marvel. For his first months in hiding, Horace had summarily ignored it, but on the tenth of December, he'd moved into a very nice terraced house in Kent whose Muggle occupants had seen fit to invest in a new large-screen television and something called satellite. Most of it was utter rubbish, of course, American Muggles doing ridiculous things, but some of it was rather educational.

He had nearly forgotten it was almost Christmas, until the Christmas programs started. Once they did, it seemed like they were everywhere. Programs, films, adverts—almost as soon as he'd decided it might be nice to see a program about Christmas, he was quite sick of them.

Or, perhaps, he was simply sick of hiding. Why, he ought to be planning his annual celebration, sending out invitations, ordering decorations, planning the menu. Why, everyone would be wondering where he'd got to! What would be the harm in coming out of hiding? Perhaps… perhaps Tom wasn't interested in an old duffer like him.

 _No_ , he realized with a sudden chill. He couldn't let himself be found. Because he _knew_. It wasn't just the horror of knowing what he must have done, though that was bad enough. It was the horror that Tom would kill him for the knowledge, or force him into being a Death Eater, as all his other old favorites had been.

It was the knowledge that a bloody Dark Lord had been coming up right under his own nose, that he, Horace, had been a party to the most evil sort of magic a wizard could perform. He shuddered, despite the crackling fire and the house's own thermo-whatsit that Horace thought he had managed to use properly.

He mashed a button on the device used to change the picture on the telly. Rather ingenious how Muggles got around without wands…

All of a sudden, he heard a crack above his head. Horace shot out of the armchair and cast a Silencing Charm at the television—it was much quicker than finding that "mute" button.

" _Homenum revelio_ ," Horace murmured. No, it had been a squirrel. He sank back into the chair.

Perhaps it was worth it to have a bit of a break after all. If he were home, he'd have all comers banging down his door, asking for favors, introductions, Harpies tickets… Horace unsilenced the television as a Muggle car flew out of an explosion. He would make do. Perhaps by spring, it would be safe to come out again. He put his feet up on the coffee table. Yes, it couldn't last past spring.

 _1998_

Snow had fallen overnight and it lay on the grounds, white and pristine. The castle, for once, was quiet.

Minerva settled by the window, cup of tea in her hand. The only thing to mar the scene was Hagrid's tracks leading from his hut up to the castle. Most of the students had gone home for Christmas. It wasn't an unusual occurrence to have a sparse population staying over, but it was bittersweet in its own way. Not a year after the war, Minerva knew why so many families had wanted their children home, and there were some gaping holes.

The seventh-year class was a mix of those who ought to have had their seventh year last year, and the surviving sixth-years. So many were missing… She'd hoped to have Harry Potter and Ron Weasley back, but they'd elected to get to work at the Ministry. Hermione Granger, her Head Girl, was spending the holiday with them, and Minerva could not blame her, nor any of the other students who would have preferred to be with their families. Just last year it had seemed so unlikely that any of them might survive to see another Christmas…

Minerva took a shortbread biscuit from the plate at her side. Perhaps the solitude would provide a bit of a break. She did not know how Albus had managed in forty years as Headmaster. It was giving her gray hairs already. She settled back in her chair. So far, it was the first Christmas morning in years when she hadn't been summoned to break up some conflict in Gryffindor Tower, or to be expected at one of Albus' parties for the staff. Of course, she missed those, but she was beginning to think that she could make her own traditions as Headmistress. They could honor Albus' memory without forcing anyone into funny hats.

She smiled. It felt good to be able to look back at those times with only a diminishing pang of sadness. The castle was still slightly battle-scarred, the students and teachers healing, but it was still Hogwarts. They would carry on as they always had.

She reached for the book on her side table. She hadn't had a chance to read it all term. She had thought giving up teaching might give her more time, but being Headmistress had created all sorts of new worries, especially in these times of rebuilding.

Later, she would go down to dinner, a cozy little meal with the other staff and the few students who had stayed. Doubtless, she would enjoy herself; despite what the students might think, Minerva knew how to celebrate.

She took another biscuit and began to read. There was time now, though.


End file.
